David Liss - The Coffee Trader

“No one has made sport of you,” Miguel said, after a moment. “And as to this matter of business, I hardly know what you mean. You wish me to set you up in some project, but I know not what that would be. I can’t even think of what I might do to satisfy you, and I have far too much to do to take the time to puzzle out your meaning.”

“But that’s my very point. You have much to do, but I have so little. I thought perhaps your brother’s wife or her pretty servant might feel the same way-a little too much time, which our preachers tell us is the source of much evil in the world. People take their time, and they use it to think and do evil instead of using it to think and do good. It occurred to me that I might help you by giving your family a chance to do good works through charity.”

“I was under the impression that salvation through works was a Catholic principle, not one of the Reformed Church.”

“Oh, you Jews are so clever. You know everything. But, still, there’s value in charity, senhor. I begin to believe that you have not acted on our plans to engage upon a business venture, and so my mind must, in the absence of other options, turn to charity. Ten guilders would go a long way toward removing me from the Vlooyenburg.”

Miguel pulled back, disgusted. Joachim’s stench hovered thick in the air. “And if I haven’t ten guilders to give you?” He folded his arms, determined to be put upon no longer.

“If you haven’t the money, senhor, anything might happen.” He flashed his hideous grin.

Bravery and prudence might not always appear to be compatible virtues, Miguel told himself as he opened his purse, and a wise man knows when to bow to circumstance. Charming Pieter himself might have preferred to take his revenge another time. But Miguel did not know if his pride could stomach Pieter’s philosophy in this instance.

He briefly considered giving him more than ten guilders. The funds Geertruid had entrusted to him had already diminished significantly, what mattered if they diminished more? What if he were to pay Joachim a hundred guilders right now, even two hundred? When offered the coin, Joachim might think himself content with so little. Surely a man in his condition would not turn away a hundred guilders.

Maybe the reasonable man Miguel had once known was truly lost, but was it not possible that money could be the thing to restore him? Perhaps he was like the woman in an old tale who needed only a magical shoe or ring to return her to her former beauty. Give Joachim a bath, a good meal and a soft bed to sleep on, and hope for the future, and would he wake up himself?

“If you came to me like a decent man,” Miguel said at last, “and only asked me for the money in a humble way, I would help you. But these tricks of yours make me disinclined. Go away. The next time I see you here, I’ll beat you senseless.”

“Do you know what makes me smell so wretched?” Joachim demanded, his voice growing loud and shrill. Without waiting for an answer, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lump of something gray and slick and-it took Miguel a moment to see that it was not merely a trick of his eyes-moving. “It’s rotten chicken flesh. I put it in my pocket to offend you and your ladies.” He laughed and threw the meat upon the ground.

Miguel stepped back.

“You would be surprised how quickly a poor man learns where to buy maggoty flesh and sour milk. Empty bellies must be filled with something, though my dainty goodwife has no love of rancid victuals. Come.” Joachim took a step closer. He held out his right hand, which was still slick from the meat. “Let us shake upon our new friendship.”

“Get gone.” Miguel hated to cringe but he would not touch the man’s flesh.

“I’ll go when I choose. If you don’t shake my hand like a man of honor, I’ll be insulted. And if I’m insulted, I may have to do something that will harm you forever.”

Miguel clenched his teeth until they began to ache. He hadn’t the energy to spare in wondering when Joachim, in his madness, might decide to tell his story before the Ma’amad. But giving the fool money would not help. He’d drink it and then demand more. Miguel’s only choice was to give him nothing and hope for the best.

“Go now,” Miguel said quietly, “before I lose hold of my anger.”

Miguel turned, wanting to hear no reply, but Joachim’s quiet parting words echoed in his ears as he walked home. “I’ve only just begun to take hold of mine.”

Miguel slammed the door upon his return, sending a ripple through the house and through Hannah’s body. She had been sitting in the drawing room, drinking hot wine. Annetje had tried to comfort her by insisting that she calm herself-though Hannah had shown no signs of agitation-and by assuring her that she did not want to have to slap her.

She knew he would come for her. He would come for her and calm her, attempt to placate her, silence her as the widow had. That was all they wanted from her, and at least, she thought, silence was something she knew how to provide.

After a moment, he entered the room. He offered her a hapless smile in an effort to appear at ease. His black suit was disordered, as though he had been exerting himself, and his hat sat askew on his head. What was more, his eyes had turned reddish, almost as though he had been crying, which Hannah considered unlikely. She knew that sometimes, when he grew intensely angry, a redness spread across his eyes like blood poured into a bucket of milk.

Miguel then turned to Annetje, his expression hard, silently asking her to leave. Hannah tried to hide her smile. At least someone dared to be harsh to the girl.

The moment Annetje stood, however, Miguel went after her. Outside the drawing room, in the front hall, Hannah could hear Miguel whispering to her in rapid Dutch. She couldn’t understand the muffled words, but she sensed that he was giving her instructions, explaining something very carefully, listening to the girl repeat everything back to him.

Miguel returned, sat down in a chair across from Hannah, and leaned forward, hands pressing on his thighs. He appeared somewhat more orderly now. Perhaps he had straightened his clothes in the hall or corrected his hat in the mirror. The buoyant handsomeness that had drained from his appearance had been restored.

“I trust you are unharmed, senhora.”

“Yes, I am unharmed,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded strange in her own mouth. So long had she been thinking about what he would say, and what she would answer, that speaking at all had an unreal quality.

“Did the fellow say anything to you?”

She shook her head as she spoke. “Nothing of consequence.” It was true enough. He had talked to her softly in thickly accented Portuguese, but his words had been nonsensical, hard to understand. They were about his suffering, much like any beggar might speak, and it had been hard to concentrate, with the wretched odor wafting from his body.

Miguel leaned back now in an effort to appear at ease. “Do you have a question for me?”

Yes, she thought . May I have more coffee berries? Her supply had run out that morning, and she had meant to raid Miguel’s secret sack before he returned, but the girl had not let her alone, and then came the business with the beggar on the street. She’d eaten no coffee in more than a day, and her desire for it made her head ache.

“I don’t understand,” she said, after a moment.

“Would you like to know who he is?”

“I assumed,” she said cautiously, “he was some beggar or other, senhor. I have no need to learn more.” Had she not secrets enough already?

“Yes, that’s right,” he told her. “He is a beggar of sorts.”

Something unspoken remained in the air. “But you know him?”